


Demon Lover

by TrendyDevil



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: the demon lover - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrendyDevil/pseuds/TrendyDevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based heavily off Elizabeth Bowen's "The Demon Lover"</p>
<p>Super big thanks to my friend Jalen for editing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demon Lover

He would only go for the electric tea kettle and a few medical books. John convinced himself he could brave 221B for only a few items; it had been about five months since he had last visited. It was late afternoon and the skies were a bleak gray. A light steam rose from the pavement after the morning’s warm showers. He walked up to the familiar door; it had aged only slightly. He noted the paint was chipping around the frame. John dug for his keys which occupied his pocket along with a few receipts and loose change. Mrs. Hudson had been out for a few weeks on holiday with her family. He had to push the door open with his good knee, shifting his weight on his cane. Stale air flooded his nostrils as he limped up the old wooden staircase. 

 

The shades were closed, and a solid film of dust covered the table. The table on which he and Sherlock had solved so many cases; well, as for Sherlock....He ran his fingers lightly over the spray painted smile and wallpaper fettered from bullets. He felt a tightening in his chest as he centered himself; he only came for the kettle. He limped by the mantelpiece to the kitchen. It felt to him strange to be in the apartment; the ghosts of all Sherlock’s experiments, heaped in piles over the tables and counters. He pocketed a few small glass test tubes, solely as momentos. Mrs. Hudson had donated most of the books in Sherlock’s room and most of his clothing- omitting his coat and scarf. That bloody scarf… John swore he never took it off for a full 24 hours. Mr. Watson found himself wandering to Sherlock’s room, blatantly breaking his promise to go straight to the kitchen then leave immediately. Sherlock’s room was as disheveled as usual, minus books. Without even realizing it, John found himself sitting on Sherlock’s stripped bed. He felt his breath catch in his throat as his eyes began welling. Concurrently, a shaft of refracted light came from behind Sherlock’s curtains and lit up the center of the bed- just fewer than two bare pillows lay a letter addressed to a John Watson. 

He initially thought that Mrs. Hudson must surely be back, but even then, she would have had no idea that John was dropping by. He had already contacted the post office about a week after the incident to have his mail redirected to Harry’s address. The letter was fresh, crisp to the touch, and pristine; it couldn’t have laid here for less than a few months. If it had, Mrs. Hudson would have sent it to him. Slightly befuddled, he picked up the letter which bearing nothing but his name. “John” had been written in a dark. sepia ink. He slid his thumb under the flap of the envelope, removing a thick, stocky sheet of paper. There weren’t but a few lines neatly scrawled, using the same sepia ink. 

 

“Dear John: You will not have forgotten my absence. Time has gone by slowly since I last saw you. I knew you would surely return. You may expect me at the hour arranged. As such, I will expect you to come if convenient. 

SH

Ps. if inconvenient, come anyway”

 

Immediately, John looked at the date printed in the top left corner: It was today's. He dropped the letter on the floor and clasped his face with his hands. After a few minutes, he stooped over to pick up the letter. He immediately recognized Sherlock’s chaotic handwriting and felt all the color leaving his face. He stood up to depart the room, dropping his cane. He stumbled into the kitchen, frantically searching for a window to crack, for air. He settled himself on the mantelpiece while he glanced over at the mirror. His face was pale; his former tan from Afghanistan was non-existant. New wrinkles had set around the edges of his eyes and mouth. His eye color were a tired blue-gray, exhausted from nights spend up working....and grieving. His hair was a touch more gray since his last visit, leaving his hair a muddled, ash-burned brown. 

Roughly Five months ago, he was standing outside St Bart’s, cell phone pressed against his ear as he gazed up at the rooftop. The air was stagnant; all breath withdrew into his lungs. He recalled every crack… every trembling inflection in Sherlock’s voice. He remembered the raw fear he felt as he observed his best friend standing on the ledge, insisting that he tell everyone he was a liar; nothing they had ever accomplished was worth a pence. He pondered Sherlock’s cold, calculating eyes; his pursed lips, upturned collar, and also all the human aspects everyone else neglected to see. He could see it before him now. Sherlock’s marble white skin… stained by blood, his pale lifeless eyes still open, his dark damp curls obscuring his face, framing it. Sherlock had to be dead. He saw it. He had gone to therapy for months on end, trying to cope.

He tried to think of anyone who knew about his coming to Baker Street today. He had told the event to absolutely no one.

“This must be some kind of sick joke, Anderson or Donovan surely, they had always resented Sherlock. But even the two of them probably couldn’t manage forging Sherlock’s writings and breaking in without a trace. Also how would they know the date?”

He looked at his watch: 6:40 PM. He knew he should’ve brought the letter to Lestrade. Obviously, someone had broken into Baker Street in Mrs. Hudson’s absence. Maybe they could find fingerprints. He tried to touch as little of the letter as possible, leaving the apartment. When he got outside, the street was empty beyond the norm. He needed to taxi to the police as soon as he could. The intruders must have been there that day. Walking slowly, John turned the corner of the street, relieved to see people on sidewalks as cars whirred by. He went to flag a taxi but there was only one; parked alone on the side of the street, John felt almost as if it had been waiting for him. 

Without looking at the driver, he slumped into the back seat and shut the door. He peered at his watch as the taxi pulled into the street: 7PM. He should be at the station in precisely fifteen minutes. Leaning back on the seat, he watched lights stream passed the window. It took him only minutes to realize he had not told the driver where he was headed. John slowly sat up and tapped on the glass. 

The driver floored the brake; Johns face flew forward and almost hit the glass. He was tossed back into his seat as the glass panel crept back. The drivers face appeared on the other side of the glass, staring back. John studied him for a few seconds, shocked beyond conjuring up a scream. Steely blue eyes leered back at him as the taxi jolted forwards, making off with John into the hinterland of deserted streets.


End file.
